I Transmigrated to the Long March and Brought Along a Modern Warehouse

Chen Ken, a warehouse manager at an old state-owned factory.

On his last night before being laid off, the warehouse's back wall “melted” amid the thunder and rain.

On the other side was the foot of Mount Jiajin in 1935.

Twenty-three ragged Red Army soldiers had gone three days without food and were chewing tree bark. A young soldier named Zhuzi was burning with fever.

Chen Ken tossed them an old military coat.

Then he discovered that every time he sent something through, he forgot a piece of his own past.

His mother's phone number, the date he enlisted, his own name...

Forget one thing, save one life.

“What I forget is my problem. If they forget what salt tastes like, they could die.”

Fifty pounds of coarse industrial salt in exchange for a bowl of pickled-vegetable soup. An old soldier from Jiangxi wept and said, “My mother wanted nothing more than a taste of something salty before she died.”

Hundreds of pairs of outdated winter boots in exchange for one frostbitten foot. The old squad leader said, “You're only seventeen, and I'm thirty-five. Losing a toe won't stop me from eating.”

Compressed biscuits, plastic sheeting, solar lamps...

He emptied the entire warehouse.

And forgot everything about himself.

Many years later, a memorial hall was being built on Mount Jiajin.

A construction crew unearthed a set of remains beneath the glacier. Beside them lay an enamel mug marked “State-Owned Hongfeng Machinery Factory.” Inside the mug was a list of twenty-three names.

On the last page, someone had written: “I came to deliver supplies. I've delivered them all.”

He didn't know his own name. But the whole mountain knew that someone had been there.